Emily (Part Seven -- good lord, get it over with already!)

After seeing Emily for about six weeks, I decided to paint my bedroom one weekend. I figured since I was the only one using it, it wasn't such a terrible idea. Emily and I hadn't crossed that threshhold. I have to admit, I was scared off by the STIs, even after she was treated and declared to be clean once more.

So I decided to paint. My room was boring -- just plain off-white walls -- so I wanted something different. I invited Emily to help. I hadn't seen her or heard from her in a few days, so I thought it would be a good chance to hang out.

"No," she said. "I'm not going to be your free labor."

Okay then.

"But," she continued, "do you want me to bring you food?"

Score. I accepted her offer and she said she would be over soon, burritos in hand.

This was Friday evening. Sunday afternoon, about two hours after I had finished painting, she arrived, sans burritos.

"Let's go out to get something," she said. "My treat."

"I thought you were coming over Friday," I said. "And then I didn't hear from you all day yesterday. I don't want to be 'that guy,' but you said you'd be over soon, which I thought meant two hours, not two days."

Granted, I didn't starve to death or anything as a result of not having a burrito on Friday night, but this was more than a bit rude.

"Sorry," she said, "I got a little bit caught up in something this weekend."

"You're still buying, right?" I asked.

"Of course," she said.

We went to Qdoba in search of burritos. Well, I should say I was in search of a burrito. Emily, on the other hand, was in search of perhaps the most ridiculously complicated Qdoba order I have ever witnessed.

"Naked chicken queso burrito, black beans, but without the queso, and with the ancho sauce, mild salsa, with a soft tortilla on the side," she said to the young woman behind the counter who clearly did not get paid enough to deal with this bullshit.

"Why don't you just get an ancho burrito?" I asked.

"It's not the same," she said, ignoring the fact that both burritos consist of meat, beans, rice, and your choice of toppings such as salsa, shredded cheese, sour cream, etc. The only real difference was the sauce. And why order a burrito without a tortilla, only to get the tortilla on the side? Why not just get the damn burrito in the tortilla (the way God intended) and let it spill out onto a plate after the first bite like it's going to do anyway?

"Just a chicken burrito," I said. "Black beans, corn salsa, shredded cheese, and sour cream please."

"No problem," said the young woman, cheerfully.

Emily's order had not been met with such enthusiasm.

We got our burritos and our drinks and sat down.

"So," said Emily, "I've got some exciting news!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!" she said. "There's this guy, and we've been going out for a few weeks now, and I think he's great!"

"Oh yeah?" I said, under the impression that she was speaking about me as if I weren't there, telling me of my amazingness, etc. "Tell me about him!" I continued, smiling knowingly.

"Well, his name is Steve," she said.

"My name is not Steve," I thought, "but she's probably messing around with me."

"He's a computer guy," she continued.

"Emily never really has asked what I do for a living, but she knows I work with web design sometimes, so yeah, she's definitely talking about me," I told myself.

"He's raising his six year old daughter, and she's so cute!"

"Daughter?" I asked, "That's a strange way to refer to my male dog."

"Huh?"

"You're talking about me, right?" I said.

"No," she replied, "I'm talking about Steve."

"Huh?"

"Steve," she repeated. "The guy I'm dating. We met on eHarmony."

"Wait a minute," I said, "So how long have you been seeing Steve?"

"A few weeks," she said.

"What about us?" I asked. "I thought you and I were dating..."

Emily was suddenly quiet.

"You mean to tell me you've been stringing me along for the last few weeks?"

No response.

"We've gone out a few times each week for the last month and a half, and for half of that time, you've been seeing someone else?"

"Well, yeah," said Emily, breaking her silence. "What did you think this was?" she asked, "A relationship?"

"Uh, yeah?" I said. "We go out to dinner, we go to movies, we spend time with each other, we often end up making out. I mean, I know it's kind of junior high-ish, but I thought we were just taking things slow, and I was okay with that."

"I... Uhhh..."

"You offered me a key to your apartment just last week," I said. "How is all that not indicative of a relationship?"

"I'm sorry you got that impression," she said, after some thought. "We are in a relationship, but not that kind of relationship..."

It then occurred to me -- I had fallen into the role of her gay boyfriend. Only I wasn't gay. Or her boyfriend.

She had strung me along for nearly a month. She wasted a portion of my life. I know, it's only three weeks, but in that time, I declined several communication requests from matches on eHarmony because, as I told them, I was pursuing another relationship. Because that's what I thought it was -- a relationship.

I should have seen the writing on the wall. She had gone from contacting me several times a day to contacting me once every couple of days, and usually only by text message. I thought we were past the infatuation stage and were now at a more healthy point in our relationship where we didn't need to be in constant contact.

Some men would have made a scene by telling her off, calling her a liar, or saying hurtful things. I'm not one of those men. No, I'm the man who quietly finished his burrito and drove both of them back to his house, and walked up to the front door, all without saying a single word.

"You're mad, aren't you..." Emily said to me as we stood on the porch.

"Whatever," I said as I unlocked and opened the door. "Do you have your things?" I asked.

"Yeah, why?" said Emily.

"You should go now," I said.

"I'm sorry," said Emily. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Pooh."

"Don't call me Pooh," I said, closing the door before she could come inside. "I fucking hate that."